Open Writing

Perhaps it was because she was a stranger that he felt able to talk about his past and to unburden himself. Perhaps because he thought his tale of woe might impress her and make her reconsider her condemnation. Perhaps because putting it into words might lead him towards his next course of action.

"I was born out of wedlock," he began. "My father was a man of society and reputation. My mother was his housekeeper. He could never acknowledge me."

Jenny laughed and startled him. It was not the response he had expected.

"There's plenty as can claim that pater was the squire," she said. "Squires do a lot of squiring. And mill owners. And any bugger with the power to get away with it. Don't worry, Master Dyce, you are not alone in your predicament of parentage."

Her pragmatic view annoyed him for he’d taken pride in being the product of a scion of Empire. He had thought his position unique. At least, his upbringing had been.

"I was educated as a gentlemen but without the rights of a gentlemen," he said, defiantly and not quite truthfully, for he had also had to work in the stables and the fields, and she pulled a face that said tish to his education. "When my father died, my half-brother inherited everything. My mother and I had to leave the hall, which had been our home."

"Ooh," said Jenny. "Lived in a hall, an' all, did we?"

He got up and banged the chair and went to stare out of the window at Tumbler's Field, where the caravan of Pedro And His Amazing Dogs And Dancing Monkey was parked alongside a tent and five tethered horses. To the right of the open space was Burke's Music Hall and above it was a new row of impressive, solidly built buildings of grey stone that reflected the bursting civic pride of the town. To the left was the shining new white-stoned parish church of St Peter. He could see the tops of factory chimneys beyond the town centre, but for once, this being Sunday, they were not belching smoke.

Behind him, Jenny said, "I'm sorry. Please go on."

He took several deep breaths and wondered, as Zac had wondered, why he had returned. It had all been a dream without substance. There had been no reason for Jane to wait for him and no reason for him to leave the wide spaces of the Americas and return.

"My father was a good man. When a distant relative died, he became guardian to a young girl. She also lived at the hall. We grew up together."

Jenny said, "And you fell in love?"

"Yes. I fell in love." He turned from the window to face her, to show he was not ashamed of his love. "Of course, it was a futile love. She had position and I had none."

"You were a bastard," she pointed out, and he couldn’t tell whether she was mocking him again.

"When I was old enough, I went to America to seek my fortune. I hoped that one day I could return and ask the lady to be my wife."

Jenny pulled another face. She had a very expressive face. This, he supposed, was probably why she was a music hall artiste.

"An awful lot of people go to America looking for fortune. An awful lot go to Australia for the same purpose. Some go to London. The less ambitious try Leeds." Her eyes opened wide. "You're the first I ever did see what came back with one."

Robert was irritated but kept his temper.

"I had good reason to return," he said.

"How long were you away?"

"Four years."

"No wonder your lady didn’t wait."

"She didn’t know I was coming."

Jenny stared at him as if he had proven a point.

"Then you are a fool, Robert Dyce, for thinking she would wait for nothing."

He leaned forward and slammed his fist upon the table because she was right. He pulled out the chair and sat down again.

"You are an annoying young lady," he said, in exasperation. "But you’re probably right."

"Was it a good match? Your lady's marriage?"

He snorted.

"You might say so. She married my brother."

"Ooh," she murmured, theatrically. "No love lost there, then?"

"We share a mutual loathing." He pointed to the scar on his cheek. "He gave me this."

"I think it's rather fetching, actually. You look as if you were in a duel."

He snorted again and slumped in the chair.

"Have you no family?" she said.

"My mother died while I was away. I have an aunt and uncle, twice removed. Distant cousins."

"In Bradfield?"

"No. In Helston."

"Will you see them?"

He sighed, and said, "Yes. I’ll see them. There’s no one else for me to see."

"And?" she asked.

"And?" He lifted his head and held her enquiring gaze. "And what?"

"You are thwarted in love, Robert Dyce. The lady you believed you loved ..."

“I do love her."

"... has married a man you hate. You feel disinherited and abused. There has to be an and. Have you no plot? No plan of revenge?"

He stared at her and saw that she was mocking him. Gently, but mocking him nonetheless. He could tell she felt he was taking himself too seriously. At least, too seriously for her. His anger flared again and, again, it was partly because she had correctly read his thoughts.

Robert Dyce gathered his dignity and stood up.

"I can see that I am amusing you, mistress." He cleared his throat. "But, as I’ve indicated already, I’m in no mood for my situation to be taken as a jest. I thank you for your kindness of last night and this morning." He indicated the dirty plate and felt in his pocket for money. "And perhaps you will not be offended if I offer payment for the lodgings you supplied."

Jenny sat back on the chaise longue and burst out laughing. Her laughter was as bright as the day and as tuneful as her singing.

"Oh sit down, you booby, and I'll make some more tea."

"Mistress?"

Jenny got up and said, "Sit down, I said." She shook her head. "You always were pompous, Robert Dyce. Pompous as a prune."

"I beg your pardon?" His confusion was compounded by her familiarity. Did he know her? "Do I know you?"

"Of course, you do. I'm your cousin thrice removed and twice around the mulberry bush."

"My cousin?"

She grinned and sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve as if she was part of a play and he began to understand the familiarity.

"I'm Beth Pallister. I used to be gone on you, with your fine manners and prune face, when you came to visit." She laughed brightly again. "The only way I could leave my mark on you was with my nose. It was a sort of love token. Did you notice?"

"Yes," he said, hesitantly, remembering all those snotty sleeves. "I remember."

He remembered the embarrassing trips to Helston he made with his mother as a boy in the coach and pair, to visit Aunt Bessie Pallister and her family. She ran a front-room shop near the river and her husband, Arnold, drove wagons for a haulier. She was plump and motherly and he was honest and slow minded. They and their three children lived above the shop and worked hard and were grateful for every small mercy.

"Poor but honest folk," his mother would say. Robert had always been wary of the three children and had dreaded being told, "Go and play with your cousins."

Bert was a year younger than him and the two boys had had nothing in common. Bert would grin and throw stones that would bounce around Robert's ankles. Gertie was a year younger still and Beth was four years his junior and his abiding memory was of her runny nose and her habit of standing as close to him as possible. On returning to the hall, he would inevitably find she had succeeded in smearing his sleeve.

After the Colonel's death, his mother had been able to buy an inn. The Colonel had also attempted to assure a future for Robert by purchasing him a legal apprenticeship at the offices of Mr Hypolyte Baines in Bradfield. Robert had given it up after six months to work in the inn and as a haulier with Arnold Pallister but he had known there was no future for him in the valley without wealth, with Harry sneering down at him from Musgrave Hall and Jane beyond his reach.

His mother had finally financed his emigration to America. At least there, she had told him, he could make a new life. She had hoped, but probably had not seriously believed, he would actually achieve his dreams.

Beth made more tea and they sat either side of the table, he on the chair and she on a stool, and they talked.

"I was stuck on you, Robert Dyce," she said, and her smile and his embarrassment hid the fact that she was still stuck on him. "Thought you were something special." She pulled another face. "Of course, so did you."

"I didn't."

"Oh yes you did. Still do. All that education and living in the hall. Gave you a split whatsit, that's what it did. Left you not knowing if you were upstairs or below stairs. Bound to make you different."

He shrugged, bowing to her analysis.

"Perhaps you’re right."

"I am right. Student of human nature, that's me." She gave him a look that was both arch and defiant. "Among other things."

He said, "Why are you here, Beth?"

"Because it's a damn sight better than a mill."

"You were in service."

"I hated it. For one, I went into service the same time you left Mr Baines and started working with your mam at the inn and my dad on the wagons. I wanted to be at home and near you and instead I was a domestic in a big house with a randy master. That was the second reason I hated it."

"Mr Ferguson?" he said.

"The same."

"He was a Justice of the Peace."

"He enjoyed a piece, all right. Younger the better. I was 11."

"Good God."

He put his hands across the table and held one of hers. The gesture was spontaneous and surprised her and she blushed and, for a moment, her flippancy had a hollow echo. But she had survived on flippancy for so long it was second nature.

"He may be a good God but sometimes he has his eyes closed. Old Ferguson was a lecher. Fortunately, his wife knew it. I don't know whether it was godliness or spite, but she took pains to thwart his intentions. I kept out of his clutches until I was 12. Until then, he managed the odd fumble, but nothing that threatened my maidenhead."

Robert was blushing and she realised her forthright speech was too indelicate. That was the way of it. Men saw only what they wanted while women put up with what they ignored.

"I'm sorry, Robert. My language isn’t ladylike." She laughed and the brightness was less plausible. "But then, neither is life."

"No. Tell me." He gripped her hand. "Tell me."

She held his gaze and her eyes were big and she told him without any theatrical tricks.

"He took my virtue when I was 12. I left and went to the mill. My pride said long hours and hard work for a pittance were preferable to degradation. You'd gone by then. My mam never knew why I left the big house. Your mam found out and took me out of the mill to live with her. I worked at the inn until she died. Did Mr Baines write?"

"He told me."

"There were bills and mortgages and fancy legal documents. The coach trade had dropped off, what with the railways, and it seems she wasn't cut out to run a business. Too soft, by half. Your mam had intended the inn to go to my mam, in keeping for you." She smiled sadly. "At the end of it, the inn became forfeit." She shrugged. "No inheritance."

“I know."

"Well, there was nothing for me in Helston, what with my mam and dad struggling enough on their own and me having no inclination to go back to a factory. So I came here and became Singing Jenny."

Robert looked around the room as if it summed up what she had been through.

"You came here."

He said it as if it were a waiting room to perdition and her hackles rose.

"Yes?"

"Oh, Beth."

"I'm Jenny here. And I'm happy being Jenny. I enjoy singing and I have good friends and I make good money. Good enough to help out my mam and dad."

His look was both sad and accusing.

"What?" she said. "What?" Her voice raised an octave and he blushed and shook his head and looked away. "You don't approve?" she said. "Last night, as I recall, you made me an offer and now you don't approve."

"Beth, this is no life."

She pulled her hand away.

"It's a damn better life than ten hours in the mill or being done by a respectable lecher for a chambermaid's wage. And let me tell you, Robert Dyce, it's going to get even better when I go to London."

"London?"

"I have the promise of an engagement at a theatre in London.

A proper theatre. Where the pickings are richer and it is not unknown for an actress to catch herself an earl."

"When are you going?"

His question and his puzzled expression pricked her indignation. She shed it and smiled.

"It's just an offer. I haven't decided, yet." She widened her eyes to warn him. "But don't preach to me about what I should and shouldn’t be doing. The money I give my mam and dad helps keep our Gertie out of the mills. They just about make a living with the shop, but no more than a bread and dripping living."

"How are your parents?"

"As ever. Dad is still on the wagons when his chest'll let him, but he's not been too good since last winter."

"And Gertie?"

"Gertie is sensible. Mam would be lost without her."

"And how's Bert? Is his aim any better?"

"Bert died last year. Typhoid."

He reached and took her hands again.

"I'm sorry."

Beth said, "He thought the world of you. Was proud as punch when you went to America."

"He was? It's funny, we never really talked."

"Not much for polite conversation, our Bert, but when he was with his pals in The Old Aquaintance or The White Door, you would have thought it was him who persuaded you to leave."

"I wish I'd known."

"You see, you were a sort of hero. Always was that cut above. But if you'd stayed, like as not, you’d have been kept in your place. At best, maybe gone clerking. But you went away and stayed a hero having adventures in America. It didn't matter what you were actually doing in America. Being there was enough. There are precious few heroes, up the valley, Robert."

"Is it still bad?"

"Worse. Nobody takes a blind bit of notice of the factory inspectors. Children are still working all hours and the pay is a pittance. All the Colonel's work has been undone."

"It doesn’t surprise me. Benevolence was never a virtue for which Harry displayed any fondness."

"You're getting pompous again, Robert Dyce."

He chuckled and said, "Do your parents know what you do?"

"They know I sing at The Shed." She could see he was embarrassed again and didn’t know how to continue his questioning. "They think I also give private singing lessons."

She gave him a look that told him not to make any quip or level any criticism. "My mam and Gertie never come to Bradfield. Dad used to, on the wagons, but he never stayed over. And anyway, here I'm Jenny. No one knows my real name."

"Jenny is a nice name," he said, avoiding any direct inference. "But I prefer Beth."

They were in danger of becoming too serious for too long a time and that was territory she avoided. A sudden thought made her smile.

"Are you going to visit my mam and dad?" she said.

"Of course."

"Today would be a good time. We could go together."

Beth imagined the stares of the neighbours and the townfolk at their arrival together in Helston. It was a pairing she had dreamed about for years.

Robert nodded and said, "I’d like that. I’ll rent a carriage and we’ll return as two heroes together."

"Two heroes?" she said, prompting the flattery she knew was waiting.

"Well, you escaped as well."

"Only as far as Bradfield."

"But London waits?"

"Aye. London waits," she said.

But London was no longer looking so attractive now he was back and causing the same palpitations he had caused all those years ago. London would be a challenge, but so would Robert Dyce.

**

The novel Flood can be bought on Amazon Kindle for 86p. Please click on http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B005966G30